


The Fall

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen, Insanity, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is, my way of dealing with the last season 2 episode...
> 
> (Note: I've used a few sentences directly from the episode - from the last conversation between John and Sherlock.)

There was nothing like this cacophony of sensations. The blinding lights reflecting on every surface, the sounds dancing around his ears. Not unlike the eye of a hurricane, a seemingly peaceful, calm, timeless place that in any second can succumb to complete, unforgiving chaos. His thoughts were sluggish, infinitely important yet so difficult to grasp. He fell to his knees breathing deeply, trying to keep the growing anxiety at bay, knowing it would consume his whole being. Closing his eyes he tried to assess his situation. Mind: unaltered, sharp, ready. Body: unharmed, confused, shaking. Slowly standing up he finally took a careful look around.

He was on the top of some building. The strong, cold wind blowing his hair all over the place. The view below was spectacular. A whole city at his feet, the fog covering the ground level and yet allowing the lights to be seen. A true masterpiece worthy of worship. The urge to jump, to give into the belief that he would just fly above almost too strong to resist. He could do it, float down like a leaf, a snowflake even. The feelings of grief would smash into the ground with his body, setting him free.

Was that not all that was left for him to do? The current misery of his existence was too pitiful to even describe. The days filled with longing and wishful thinking. Various ‘what ifs’ driving him to insanity.

He heard The Voice today, a few more weeks and he would see the body that went with it, probably. Fuck, did he wish to… madness was a small price to pay. He barely noticed his phone was ringing. The noise made him falter and fumble through his pockets in search. He pressed the button without checking who was calling.

‘Get back from the edge, John’ a posh British voice commanded him quietly. ‘Mycroft, I thought we didn’t talk anymore.’ He answered the man whose voice he hasn’t heard for a good few months.

 ‘Things are not as they seem, Doctor Watson, that is all I can honestly say at this precise moment and through the available method of communication. Come down and all will be explained.’ There was a strained note barely detectable in the speech, but John could hear it loudly.

 ‘Nothing you can tell me will make it better.’ There were tears gathering in his eyes, he could feel his throat closing, a bitter taste spreading throughout his mouth. A deep breath didn’t really help much.

‘ _John_.’ Mycroft’s voice was more urgent, in any other man he would say there was fear in it. ‘Someone wants to meet you. At the flat. _Now_.’ Holmes seemed to be angry now.

‘Who? There is no one, no one who can change my mind. Not anymore, Mycroft.’ John was at the breaking point, he could almost hear the deep laughter in the wind, maybe even his name whispered in that baritone.

 ‘Must you be so obvious, Doctor? I certainly cannot be any clearer. Be reasonable, for god’s sake!’ John stepped forward, right onto the ledge and spread his arms. He breathed in the crisp, winter air, feeling it burn in his lungs, he welcomed the sensation as something new. Something different than the constant emptiness or crippling desire for an end.

‘John, _John_ , listen to me.’ A new voice and yet not at all, the sound of an old friend, oddly unsettled and desperate. John smiled and it looked ruthless. He laughed too, a sound not of amusement but horror. Complete and utter defeat in that one hollow sound.

‘Sherlock, you mad bastard, stay exactly where you are.’ He murmured, a sick, satisfied timbre easily noticed by either Holmes.

‘ _John._ ’ A broken sound, a moan of such pain in one single word, and yet, John continued.

‘Keep your eyes fixed on me.’

A heartbeat. Two. Silence.

‘It's a trick. Just a magic trick.’ A whispered promise. A feeling of intense satisfaction coursed through his whole body. Was this how Moriarty felt when one of his schemes succeeded? A heady sensation, indeed. Impossible to resist and he craved more. Nothing tasted as sweet as revenge.

’Don’t do this, John. Don’t let him win after all we’ve been through. John, hate me, but _live_. Punish me however you want, I will do _anything_ you tell me but you _must_ live. Surely you understand?’

Sherlock sounded distraught, never before had he appeared less confident.

‘ _We_ , Sherlock? There is no ‘we’, you made sure of that.’ John shook his head in apparent amusement.

‘ In the end it was Moran who told me, you know. In a way, he completed his mission after all, isn’t that amusing? You still enjoy that kind of humour, right? He was very helpful, such a well of information. The heart of the matter, Sherlock, is that Moriarty won, after all. I find it infinitely entertaining that you did not see it at all.’ John was just getting started, he readied himself to deliver the final blow.

‘That day, you didn’t save me, Sherlock. You murdered me, butchered, gutted. You carved out my heart and fell on it. You shattered my fucking spirit and jumped on my soul. Can you understand that, Sherlock? Can your highly-functioning sociopathic mind process that?’

John was swaying slightly, back and forth, in his anger, just a step away from eternal damnation.

‘John, _stop_ , he’s already broken, what more do you want?’ Mycroft cut in again.

 ‘I want it to _stick_ , I want him to _suffer_ , _that’s_ what I want, Mycroft’ so much spite and loathing in one sentence.

‘You loved him once, Doctor, I know you did, have you no mercy, cannot you forgive? Have some decency!’ There was a sound at the back of his mind, niggling and pesky. He finally took notice and shook with anger. A helicopter was nearby but not in his line of sight yet.

‘Playing for time Mycroft? That’s clever, that’s very clever but also: too late.’ He should have realized faster that the older Holmes was not one for sentiment.

‘As for loving him? There is not so much distance between love and hate, as I’m sure the spousal murder statistics clearly show. Now, this phone calls really do make good notes, don’t they?  Goodbye, Sherlock.’

And he jumped. He faintly heard a heartbreaking scream but it could just as well have been the wind whistling in his ears.  He dimly recalled imaging this as gentle floating but the reality was terrifying.

A fall, unstoppable, fast. He couldn’t move a limb, couldn’t breathe, he was dying as he fell, his mind unfocused. The last thought in his head was a flash of happiness. The knowledge of finally putting one over the notorious Sherlock Holmes.

There was no regret, as his heart had died a long time ago. He could feel his world fading, the lack of air taking its toll on his exhausted body.

He blacked out and knew no more.

He crashed. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...


End file.
